Black Coffee in Bed
by Alicia K
Summary: The musings of a disappointed man.


Title: Black Coffee In Bed  
Author: Alicia K  
Feedback: Oh yeah! Spartcus1@msn.com  
Rating: R, for sexual situations  
Spoilers: None.   
Classification: Scully/Other  
Summary: Musings of a disappointed man.  
Archive: Spooky site, please. Anywhere else, please   
ask.  
Disclaimer: No infringement intended. Please and   
thank you.  
  
The title comes from the Squeeze song by the same   
name. Snazzy tune!  
  
Thank you to my ever-helpful beta team for their help   
and honesty: Jamie, Joanna, Mish, and Caz. And   
thanks for letting me argue with you! g  
  
Story can also be found at my website:  
http://members.dencity.com/aliciak/enter.html  
  
XXX  
  
"Another one?" Greg asked me, taking my empty   
bottle away.  
  
I shook my head. "Coffee." I lit a fresh cigarette and   
flipped open my notebook, preparing to write   
something, anything, to put down on paper the events   
of the previous night.  
  
Greg returned with a chipped mug and a pot of   
coffee. "Black?"  
  
"Yeah," I sighed, staring down at the smudged, tan   
ring on the white paper. The wrinkled circle made   
me think of that old song by Squeeze, the one about   
lips full of passion.  
  
I had a visual memory of her sitting next to me on my   
bed, mug of coffee precariously balanced on her   
thigh as she leaned in to kiss me. I shook my head,   
grimacing.  
  
"So what happened with that knockout you left here   
with last night?" Greg asked me as he walked to the   
other end of the empty bar.  
  
"Took her home," I answered without any glimmer of   
suggestion.  
  
"And?"  
  
"Won't be seeing her again."  
  
Greg groaned in sympathy. "Damn. That's a shame.   
She was somethin' else, man."  
  
Yeah, she sure was.  
  
XXX  
  
She was Dana; she of the flame-red hair, flawless   
skin, and lips to slay for. I was sitting at the corner   
table, nursing a pint of Guinness and smoking, my   
notebook open before me as I tried to start my next,   
unmarketable short story.  
  
She walked in with purpose, apparently not noticing   
(or ignoring) the five heads that turned her way, mine   
included. She was hard to miss, with such a perfect   
little body and that hair, pulled back in a black clip.   
Her black turtleneck was snug, as were her faded   
jeans.  
  
I found myself jotting down these things, filling half   
a page with descriptive narrative before I looked up   
again. She was at the bar with a glass in front of her.   
Her eyes remained fixed on the drink, as if she were   
trying to communicate telepathically with it. She   
held something small in her right hand. I couldn't   
tell what it was, but the dim light in the bar glinted   
off of its surface as she toyed with it.  
  
Behind the bar, Greg was eyeing her with interest,   
and something in me reared up. I didn't want anyone   
trying to zero in on her. I wanted her to remain just   
the way she was at that moment: quiet, still, and   
seemingly trying to muster the courage to down her   
drink.  
  
Recovering alcoholic falling off the wagon? I   
wondered as she raised one pale hand to slowly turn   
the glass around and around, not picking it up off the   
bar. Or just an abysmally shitty day?  
  
I decided I really wanted to know.  
  
Now, I wasn't the kind of guy who picked up women   
in bars, even bars that I regularly frequent. Even if I   
hadn't been recently divorced and in the process of   
moving to Chicago, I wouldn't be out looking for a   
quick lay.  
  
But this woman, I liked. I hadn't even gotten a good   
look at her eyes, to see if they were full of mischief,   
or sorrow, or maybe even fury. I just liked the way   
she carried herself, the way she strode purposefully   
into the bar, only to hesitate with drink in hand. I   
liked the way she looked, too, but that was almost   
incidental.  
  
Before I could convince myself that this was a Bad   
Idea, I gathered my notebook, pen, and drink and   
headed over to the bar. It was still early, and there   
were empty stools on either side of her. I chose one   
two seats to her left, leaving a nice, respectable   
distance between us.  
  
She seemed to stiffen as I settled in to my new place;   
her shoulders straightened, and she turned ever so   
slightly away from me. She did, however, finally   
raise the glass to her lips and drink, which I took as a   
sign of good progress.  
  
I cleared my throat as inconspicuously as I could, and   
continued to scribble little nonsense phrases in my   
notebook: "red flame, tendril of hair licking at her   
cheek", "burning drink down a slender throat", crap   
like that.  
  
Two big swallows later, she set the empty glass   
firmly down on the bar. As Greg made a beeline for   
her, ready as always to move in with oh-so-innocent   
bartender chatter, I asked, "May I buy you another   
one of those?"  
  
She turned to me so quickly, it made my own neck   
hurt. Her blue-gray eyes appraised me coolly, and   
apparently she didn't hate what she saw, for she gave   
a crooked smile and shrugged. "Sure."   
  
Greg was glaring at me, but I just smiled at him.   
"She'll have another," I said to him, and he stomped   
away.  
  
Her shoulders lifted slightly in a soundless laugh. "I   
think you just saved me from certain small talk," she   
said dryly, pushing the empty glass away from her.  
  
"Nah, Greg's all right. Just a little eager." I smiled   
at her, and she responded with one of her own. She   
really was beautiful.  
  
"Thank you," she said, then repeated the words when   
Greg set another drink in front of her. Once again,   
she began her routine of sizing up the drink, then   
turning it slowly before drinking. I still couldn't tell   
what she held in her other hand, but from the motion   
she made, I knew she was still flipping it back and   
forth between her fingers.  
  
"Um . . ." A thread of nervousness wound its way   
through me, and I cleared my throat again. "Haven't   
seen you in here before." Oh, Jesus, I thought,   
mentally smacking myself. How wonderfully   
original. Not only are you supposed to be a writer, a   
creative type, but she just made it perfectly obvious   
that she wasn't interested in any small talk. Idiot!  
  
But to my surprise, she gave another crooked smile   
and said, "No, I usually don't hit the bars after work."  
  
"You must have had a crappy day."  
  
Now she turned to me, crossing her legs and   
balancing the glass on her leg with her hand. "Why   
do you say that?"  
  
"Because you aren't really giving off that 'happy   
hour' vibe." Okay, I thought, inwardly sighing with   
relief. That's better.  
  
She paused for a moment before replying, "You   
know, I haven't had a happy hour in quite some time.   
I'd kill for even a happy minute."  
  
There was silence after that as she pondered her drink   
again and I doodled a sloppy tree in the margin of my   
notebook. She looked down, now staring into the   
glass as if she were searching for something she had   
lost. I took the opportunity to watch her, studying the   
slight lines creasing the skin around her eyes and   
mouth, the downward pull of her full lips.  
  
She looked tired and rather sad. Maybe even   
wounded. I wondered if she were here to drown her   
sorrows or to exact some sort of revenge. My gaze   
trailed down her arm until they came to rest on her   
left hand. No ring.  
  
When I raised my eyes back to hers, she had a   
sheepish smile on her face; I realized that she had just   
done the same thing. We shared a smile.  
  
"I'm Mike," I said, extending my hand.  
  
She hesitated only a second before taking it. "Dana."  
  
Dana. I rolled her name silently on my tongue,   
enjoying it. Of course, she didn't know whether or   
not I had simply slipped a wedding ring into my   
pocket in order to lure some company for the night.   
And I didn't know if she had done the same.  
  
"So, um . . . what do you do, Dana?" She gave a   
brief sigh and studied me, as if deciding which lie to   
tell. I decided to save her the trouble. "I know - you   
could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me, right?"  
  
She laughed then, a bright, short exclamation that   
changed her whole countenance, if only for a second.   
"Something like that, yeah." With a final tilt of her   
wrist, she drained her second drink. "How about   
you?"  
  
I raised my empty glass in Greg's direction, gesturing   
for more. "Sorry, that's classified." She laughed   
again, a bit longer this time. I guessed that laughing   
was something she didn't do very often. I wanted to   
make her laugh more. I wanted to make her happy.   
In the brief minutes I had known her, I wanted to   
dedicate the rest of my life to doing just that. I   
wanted to tell her this, and watch the horror spread   
over her face, but instead I said, "I'm a writer."  
  
An interesting expression flashed across her face; it   
looked like a mixture of apprehension and dry   
amusement. "What do you write?" She murmured   
another thanks to Greg, who eyed me silently while   
placing another Guinness before me. I ignored him.  
  
"Nothing, if the past few months have been any   
indication." I took a gulp of bitter, cold beer. "I sold   
two short stories five months ago, but my streak   
seems to have ended."  
  
Her third drink disappeared faster, and we talked   
about books and life in D.C. As her glass emptied,   
her smile grew. My second beer made me bold.   
"Dana, would you . . . " The words started out of my   
throat before the sensible part of my beer-logged   
brain could disagree. She leaned towards me, legs   
crossed, smile beautiful, tipsy anticipation in her   
bright eyes. ". . . would you like to come home with   
me?"  
  
Her smile didn't fade. She didn't turn away. She   
didn't get up and leave. She simply stared at me,   
sizing me up as she had done with her first drink.   
"Mike," she said in a matter-of-fact voice. "Are you   
propositioning me?"  
  
"Not if you're an undercover cop posing as a   
hooker," I blurted, then swallowed heavily.  
  
"If I were a little more sober, I'd kick your ass for   
that." Then she did turn away from me, and my heart   
began its downward descent, until I realized she was   
just grabbing her purse from the bar.   
  
She hesitated for just a moment before finally   
exposing the item she had been clutching. As she   
tossed it on the bar, it slid and clanked against her   
empty glass. It was a gold wedding band.   
  
I stared at it, blinking furiously, unsure if I should say   
something or ignore it entirely. It was a smooth,   
thick band, and I realized that it would be much too   
large for her slender finger; it was a man's wedding   
band.  
  
She stood and pinned me with an unwavering gaze.   
"Let's go."  
  
We walked silently, but with steady strides, the two   
blocks to my nearly empty apartment. Half-packed   
boxes littered the living room, and she tripped over a   
roll of packing tape as she strode inside.  
  
I moved to kiss her in the dark of the living room, but   
she turned her head aside at the last second. Startled,   
I opened my mouth to question her, but closed it   
when she took my hand and led me down the hall.   
"It's the room on the left," I whispered, but I doubted   
she really needed the directions.  
  
Dana moved with a purpose, and I again fleetingly   
wondered if she were exacting some sort of revenge   
with me. The room was empty save for my bed and a   
bedside table. She stood in the middle of the room   
and reached up and back, releasing her hair from the   
clip. Without skipping a beat, she peeled the   
turtleneck over her head and stepped towards me,   
reaching for the hem of my shirt and struggling to get   
it over my head.  
  
Jesus, I thought. I wanted to tell her to slow down, I   
wanted to take the time to kiss her thoroughly, to run   
my hands through that beautiful hair, to learn her   
body, learn as much as I could about her. But I   
didn't have the nerve to interrupt.  
  
When she reached up to pull my head down to hers, I   
bent to lace my arms with hers, gripping her bare   
back and fumbling with the clasp on her plain, white   
bra. She tasted like lipstick and whiskey, with an   
underlying hint of something I couldn't put my finger   
on. I wondered if I tasted like cigarettes.  
  
With her chest bare, I raised my hands to gently cup   
her breasts, but she pushed me away almost roughly,   
reaching for the buttons on my fly. I wanted to stop   
her, ask her why she was so impatient when we had   
all night, when we had the rest of our lives, but my   
stiffening cock overruled my sappy heart.  
  
I gave a fumbling apology about having to find a   
condom, then raced to dig through an already packed   
box in the bathroom, scattering bottles of aspirin,   
rolls of toilet paper, and bars of Dial soap in the   
process.  
  
Stepping back into the bedroom, I saw her on the   
bed, stretched naked on top of the comforter and   
watching me with her intelligent eyes. My mouth   
dropped open and I quickly clamped it shut again,   
lest I look like an overeager 16-year old about to lose   
his virginity.  
  
Still wishing I could slow this sped-up film down, I   
yanked down my jeans and boxers. She watched as I   
undressed, not saying a word, not even blinking, it   
seemed.  
  
When I went to her, she kissed me again, slowly and   
deeply. I tasted that unnameable thing on her tongue,   
on the roof of her mouth, on her full lips. When she   
touched me, I bit down on my tongue to stop myself   
from blurting out that I wanted to father her children.   
When she turned me over and lowered herself onto   
my cock, I moaned and was careful not to let it sound   
like 'I love you'. When I came inside of her after I   
had stroked her to orgasm, I allowed myself to   
whisper her name, twice.  
  
I woke some time later. I was immediately   
embarrassed for having fallen asleep, then frantic   
when I realized that she was gone.   
  
But then there she was, standing by the window,   
wrapped in the sheet and smoking one of my   
cigarettes. She watched the night through the flimsy   
curtain, bending every so often to blow smoke   
through the open window. "Hey," I said, rubbing my   
eyes to hide the relieved tears that had suddenly   
appeared.  
  
She turned to give me a soft smile. "Hey."  
  
I sat up, bunching the comforter around me. "Do you   
. . . um . . . can I get you something? To drink?"  
  
"Yeah, thanks. Some coffee would be nice, if you   
have some."  
  
"Coffee. Okay." I swung my legs over the bed and   
pulled on my jeans. I wanted to kiss her so much, but   
at that moment, she seemed so utterly untouchable   
that I left the room quickly, without another word.  
  
When I returned, I was disappointed to see that she   
had dressed. "Dana?" She looked up and smiled a   
genuine smile that warmed my heart. Maybe I could   
convince her to stay. Maybe I could convince her   
that she was the one I had been waiting for. "How do   
you take it?"  
  
"Black is fine. Thank you," she added as I handed   
her the steaming mug with the Superman logo on it.  
  
"All my chairs are already in Chicago," I said   
apologetically, gesturing towards the rumpled bed.   
  
"That's fine." We sat on the edge of the bed, sipping   
the hot coffee carefully. "Chicago?"  
  
"Yeah. I was divorced six months ago. Seemed like   
a good place for a fresh start."  
  
"Hm. It's cold there."  
  
"It's cold here," I countered, and she smiled her   
agreement. She was breathtaking: pale skin in the   
moonlight, tousled hair, strong hands cupped around   
the goofy mug. "Dana," I began, wanting to explain   
that I really wasn't the kind of guy who picked up   
strange women in familiar bars, but she stopped me.  
  
"Don't, Mike," she said gently, resting her hand over   
mine. She's going to kiss me, I realized as she leaned   
closer, mug balanced on her right thigh.  
  
The sound of a cell phone interrupted us, startling her   
enough to gasp and jerk slightly, sloshing coffee onto   
her leg. "Shit," she hissed, jumping up and brushing   
at her leg. I took the mug from her, and she went   
across the room to get her purse from the floor.   
  
I set the mug down on the open notebook on the   
bedside table. I watched a few trickles of coffee   
wind their way down the sides to stain the white of   
the paper.  
  
"Scully," she snapped into her retrieved phone.   
"Yeah. What? How . . . ? Is   
he . . . " Her voice had become hushed and   
frightened, and I turned to watch her. One hand   
clutching the phone to her ear, the other grasping at   
her hair, she continued, "I'll be right there." She   
ended the call, her head bowing slightly. I could hear   
her breathing. I wanted to hear that sound beside me   
until the day I died.  
  
She turned back to me, her eyes moist. "I have to   
go."  
  
I reached across the bed for my shirt. "Let me drive   
you."  
  
She waved a hand in a brief dismissal and bent to   
grab her shoes. "No, no, you don't have to."  
  
"Let me drive you," I repeated. She paused, then   
nodded in acceptance. She grabbed her purse, I   
grabbed my keys, and we went to my beat-up Honda.   
"Where to?"  
  
"Georgetown Medical."  
  
"Everything all right?" I asked as we pulled into   
traffic. Glancing at her, I saw the tight grip she held   
on the purse in her lap.  
  
"No. No, it's not." She uttered a tiny, humorless   
laugh and raised a hand to brush away a tear that I   
couldn't even see.  
  
I drove as fast as I dared, watching out for cops.   
Beside me, Dana said nothing, but I could hear how   
afraid she was.  
  
Ten minutes later, I pulled up to the emergency room   
entrance. She didn't move to get out, but instead   
looked at me. "I'm sorry," she whispered.  
  
"I hope everything's okay," I told her, wetting my   
dry lips. I was aching to give her a kiss, to hold her,   
even if only for a moment. "Can I see you again?"  
  
She reached for the door handle and turned away,   
repeating, "I'm sorry." And then she was running up   
to the automatic doors, running out of my life.  
  
I sat for a moment before realizing that I was   
possibly in the way of ambulances. Pulling into a   
visitor parking spot, I let the car idle and rubbed my   
hands over my face.  
  
I stayed there for a good fifteen or twenty minutes,   
replaying every moment of the past few hours, seeing   
her smile, her hair, her body arching over mine, her   
appraising eyes. In my life, I hadn't been sure of   
many things, my ex-wife Becky included. I wasn't   
even sure that Chicago was the best place for me.  
  
But with an urgency I had never felt before, I was   
sure that I needed to be with Dana. I knew nothing   
about her, or she about me. I assumed her last name   
was Scully. I knew she was beautiful. I knew her   
skin smelled like sandalwood and her hair smelled   
faintly of lemons. I knew her lips tasted like . . . like   
something, something I couldn't put my finger on,   
but wanted to keep tasting until the day I died.   
  
I did know that what I was feeling was infatuation   
and lust, and would probably fade quickly, but I   
needed to take that chance. Chicago was a decision I   
could change. But if I let Dana go this easily, that   
would be a decision I could not.  
  
I got out of the car and practically ran into the   
hospital. The admitting nurse looked at me   
expectantly as I gripped the edge of the hard counter   
and asked, "Can you tell me where I can find Dana   
Scully? Short, red hair, came in just a minute ago?"  
  
Before she could deny my request, I saw her glance   
down the hall in the direction Dana had gone. Not   
letting her turn me away, I jogged down the hall,   
ignoring her calls of "Sir? Sir, you can't go in there.   
Hey!"  
  
Through the third door I passed, I caught a glimpse of   
red and stopped, watching silently from the doorway.   
  
There was Dana, bent over the still form of a dark-  
haired man hooked up to an IV, a bandage on his   
forehead.  
  
There was Dana, stroking his fingers and murmuring   
things that I couldn't hear, that I could only wish she   
would whisper to me, just once.  
  
I guess I wasn't surprised to see that he looked like   
me, but with a bigger nose and a shorter haircut.  
  
As the security guard took my arm and led me away,   
I realized that she had tasted like regret and a hefty   
amount of guilt, but that didn't really surprise me   
either.  
  
XXX  
  
I traced a finger around the faded coffee stain,   
picturing her standing in my bedroom, jeans damp   
with spilled coffee.  
  
"So what was her name?" Greg asked.  
  
"Dana."  
  
"Too bad, man." He didn't even try to hide the   
triumphant tone in his voice. I ignored him, and he   
walked away.  
  
"Yeah," I whispered, picking up my pen and   
beginning to write. "Too bad."  
  
END  
  
Well? Want to know more about this mysterious   
wedding band? Wondering why the heck our   
beloved Scully is off boffing someone other than   
Mulder? Stay tuned for the continuing   
stooooooooory of a cat . . . who's gone to the dogs.  
  
Feedback lovingly cherished at: spartcus1@msn.com  
  
  



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